


Attachment

by Kinematic



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Abuse of sentence fragments, Adultery, Angst, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of choking, vague reference to suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16466861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinematic/pseuds/Kinematic
Summary: Joseph offered wine and good company. He smelled like nice cologne and Egyptian cotton. He tasted like icing sugar. He made Robert’s head spin.





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**Author's Note:**

> I was glad to see that the update for Dream Daddy came out today. I still think so much about these characters and how much of a perfectly toxic match they are, so I whipped this up. I still have a few WIPs for Robert/Joseph, but we'll see if they ever find their way to AO3. 
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoy. This is unbeta'd.

It’s better to be unattached, in body and mind. Keeps your head clear. Keeps you from making stupid mistakes. From getting yourself killed. Romance is overrated, Robert thought.

At least, he had ever since Marilyn died.

At least, he _had_ , until that day at the marina, when Joseph first invited him aboard the yacht.

Joseph offered wine and good company. He smelled like nice cologne and Egyptian cotton. He tasted like icing sugar. He made Robert’s head spin.

Robert hated him, now. But for a time, he loved Joseph. He loved the way Joseph teased him about sinners and saints. He loved the way Joseph carved a small cross the first time Robert showed him how to whittle. He loved the way Joseph fucked him,made him feel small, safe—in a way that rocked the whole boat and sent ripples through the bay. He loved the sting of the stick-and-poke Joseph seared into his skin.

He hated Joseph.

So why did his eyes well with tears when Joseph said it was over?

It was so short but so intense, their romance. In hindsight, Robert wished he would have listened to his own advice.

But how could he? How could he when, that first night, Joseph turned on Jimmy Buffett and tried to slow dance with him? How could he when Joseph wrestled for his wine glass and gave Robert a ratty t-shirt to borrow when wine sloshed onto his chest? How could he when, after a few drinks, Joseph shoved him down on the bed and looked into his eyes like nothing else mattered—like all Joseph wanted to do was make Robert see stars? How could he when Joseph kissed down his chest, over all of his scars, then claimed his mouth like it was Robert who emanated the grace of God, not the other way around?

Robert was smitten, and he was stupid. He knew that now.

He knew it, too, not long after the ink in his hand started crust over with scabs.

Joseph took him to bed again, that last night, thrusting like a jackhammer, with his hand around Robert’s throat. Robert’s eyes rolled back into his head; He felt like he was floating. Joseph was brutal, and never more brutal than he was that night.

It was only afterwards, as Robert skated his fingertips over Joseph’s own tattoo, that Robert knew that things would never be the same.

Joseph’s cell phone had rung. Christie was frantic on the other side, shrieking that one of her brothers had fallen on the patio and was bleeding from his knee. Joseph coached her through patching the wound, using pressure to stop the bleeding and taping gauze to keep it clean. Then, he promised he would be home in fifteen minutes.

Robert didn’t want to be that guy—the one to ask why he himself was not invited along, like a clingy girlfriend who didn’t know when she was no longer wanted—but he did. He wanted Joseph to want him there, too.

He regretted it as soon as the words came from his lips.

Joseph shrugged. He said he was married, that he needed to take care of his kids, that Robert didn’t really know what that instinct felt like, the instinct to protect his own.

It felt like a punch to the gut.

Robert hissed that Joseph’s marriage or kids never stopped them before. That Joseph never cared that his kids were home alone, while he was galavanting on his yacht, sucking Robert’s dick. 

Joseph said that he didn’t mean to mislead Robert. That things had simply gotten out of hand. That he was sorry.

That it was over.

Joseph left, and Robert let himself out.

In his bathroom mirror at home, Robert couldn’t bear to look at the bruises left on his neck. His bloodshot, puffy eyes. And worst of all, the _marking_ on his hand—a reminder that he could never be, even if his whole heart and and body and _soul_ willed it, unattached.

Romance was worse than overrated, Robert mused as he poured his fifth whiskey of the night. It was dead.

Like Marilyn.

Like he wished Joseph was.

Like he wished he was, too.


End file.
